“My sister… she believed love was worth dying for.”
I brush his damp hair away from his forehead, my fingers lingering for a moment. “And you don’t?”
Silence. Then, barely more than a whisper—
“Love gets you killed.”
Something inside me cracks wide open, raw ,and aching. My breath catches in my throat, my chest tightening under the weight of his pain. The truth of what he’s endured sinks into me like a lead weight—I can feel it in my bones, pressing, and suffocating. My fingers clench at my sides as I fight the sting in my eyes, a lump forming at the base of my throat. It’s too much. Too cruel. And yet, he’s lived with it every day.How does he carry this? How does he not collapse under it?A shuddering breath escapes me, but I refuse to let it break me. Not now.
I don’t think. I don’t hesitate. I climb into bed beside him, my fingers trembling as I drape my arm over his fever-wracked body. He’s suffered so much—more than anyone should have to endure. His breath stirs against my collarbone, uneven but slowing, and I press my lips to his temple to keep the emotions from spilling over.
My heart hammers against my ribs as I hold him, not sure if I’m offering comfort or seeking it myself. But in this moment, it doesn’t matter.
When the fever breaks, and when the walls snap back into place—will he remember this? Or will I be the only one left holding this fragile, fleeting moment between us?
A loud chime jolts me awake, my heart slamming against my ribs before my brain catches up. The room is dark except for the muted glow of the television, flickering against the walls like a phantom. I blink away the haze of sleep, my pulse still racing.
Breaking News flashes in bold red letters across the screen, the reporter’s voice slicing through the silence.
"We begin this morning with breaking news out of Manhattan—an arrest has been made in the high-profile overdose case of socialite Alessandra Moore. Officials confirmed late last night that the woman accused of providing Moore with the fentanyl-laced drugs that led to her death is now in custody. Sources say she has been cooperating with investigators and was aware of the lethal dose in the substances she distributed."
The air in my lungs stills.
"The NYPD has also confirmed that Russian officials have requested her immediate extradition, meaning the suspect may never face trial in the U.S. for her alleged crimes."
I exhale slowly, pressing a hand to my forehead.That’s it.That’s what we were waiting for. That’s what kept me here, it’s over.
My name is clear. No more accusations. No more looking over my shoulder. No more being trapped.
I should be relieved. I should be packing my things, heading back to the life I had before, the safe, and quiet life where people don’t get shot. This should feel like victory.
But the thought of leaving settles like lead in my chest.
Because it wouldn’t just be leaving this place.
It would be leaving him.
The news anchor keeps talking, their voice distant, butthen—
"In other news, prominent businessman Giovanni Rinaldi was found dead in his home early this morning in what officials are calling an apparent murder. Authorities say his body was discovered shortly after several of his businesses across the city were vandalized and set ablaze overnight. Sources close to the investigation suggest that evidence found at the scene may link Rinaldi to a network of illegal gambling houses, escort services, and drug operations, though police have not confirmed any official charges against him. At this time, no suspects have been identified, but officials are urging anyone with information to contact the NYPD tip line immediately."
My breath hitches.
Rinaldi is dead?He was a drug runner.Was he somehow involved with the plot to frame me?The realization strikes hard. Rinaldi is dead, and Asher almost died too.
A sharp breath shudders through me. This is where he went. This is what he did. He walked straight into the fire, took the risk, and nearly bled out—all for me.
I think of Serafina. Of how Asher told me he was too late. Of how he held her as she died, helpless to save her. Does he see this as his second chance, a way to make up for the past, and to finally save someone when he couldn’t save her?
I look at him, barely visible in the dim light, his body still tense even in sleep, and fever clinging to him like a vice. His wound, his exhaustion, and the fight still raging inside him.
This is my fault.
This wasn’t supposed to be his burden to bear. But he made it his. And I can’t let him carry it alone.
Carefully, I slip back under the blankets, pressing my body against his, and hoping my warmth will help break the fever burning through him. My hand finds his, fingers curling around his bruised knuckles, grounding him. Maybe grounding me, too.
I won’t leave. Not yet. Not until he’s well.
